


Exercises in Style

by breathedout



Series: Exercises in Style [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:38:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several scenes, written and re-written in different styles. A pastiche project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10:00 - After Austen

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing writing exercise in which collection of scenes from a single day in the life of the Sherlock BBC characters, are written and re-written in the styles of famous writers.
> 
> The point is for me to stretch my writing muscles and try out different styles, hopefully to amusing effect; the plot and pairings will be secondary, although hopefully internally consistent. A given scene may be written multiple times in different styles; everything labeled with the same time (e.g., 10:00, 3:30) will feature the **same events, just told differently.**
> 
>  
> 
> These are all just for fun, and therefore un-betaed and un-britpicked, not to mention un-Austen-picked.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Molly Hooper was taken up, that morning, with a good deal of paperwork; and, having not been advised beforehand of the arrival of Lestrade or his associates, was sufficiently absorbed in attending to her work that she did not at first respond to the knock on the door.

Miss Molly Hooper was taken up, that morning, with a good deal of paperwork; and, having not been advised beforehand of the arrival of Lestrade or his associates, was sufficiently absorbed in attending to her work that she did not at first respond to the knock on the door. The perpetual sharp sounds at length permeating her preoccupation, however, she made her way in some haste down the corridor to the entrance of the wing; with the result that, when she opened at last to reveal the haughty countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a high flush had risen on her cheeks. 

‘Mr. Holmes!’ she cried. ‘I did not look for you this morning.’ 

‘Let us defer until another time,’ said Holmes, ‘your raptures at the receipt of such a surprise.’ 

He awaited neither response nor invitation, but pushed through to the corridor within, followed in his turn by his friend, Doctor Watson. 

Molly, blushing furiously, hastened to attend to them. She was most agitated; not only as a result of her customary apprehension whenever she found herself in the presence of Mr. Holmes, but because the events of a recent decision by the hospital’s board of governors, still only a week or so distant, presented themselves unavoidably to her mind; and between the two considerations she was grievously torn.

‘It is only,’ she said, ‘that of late the hospital solicitors have most strictly forbidden the admission of parties not approved beforehand by a Saint Bartholomew’s governor.’

‘I declare myself all amazement at your sudden change of conviction, Miss Hooper,’ said Holmes. ‘I assure you, you are mistaken if you suppose that anyone at this hospital will thank you for delaying the express application of justice.’ 

‘I am sure they do not mean to imply that _you_ , sir, should be in any way inconvenienced, or restrained from the fullest application of your talents. But you must see, that in the absence of any stated exceptions, it is bound to appear most – irregular.’ 

Neither man made any reply to this. Molly cast about for another method by which to detain them, as Mr. Holmes indeed had reached almost to the door he sought; but presently Doctor Watson’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘Calm yourself, Miss Hooper,’ said the doctor. ‘We come at the particular request of Detective Inspector Lestrade, to view your most recent arrival, late of Christchurch Street. Lestrade himself will be here within the quarter-hour; and I am certain his presence will assuage any momentary appearance of impropriety, which your conduct might occasion during our stay.’

‘Oh,’ said she, much relieved by this intelligence, and secretly a good deal pleased as well. ‘If that is the circumstance, of course it is quite different. Let us only await the arrival of Mr. Lestrade, so that we four may go in together.’

‘Perhaps it is as well that we should do so,’ Watson said, smiling a little. Mr. Holmes was silent, and indeed appeared some degree aggrieved; yet evidently sufficiently resigned, as to consider a delay inevitable. They said no more at first, but stood in silence until Mr. Holmes spoke again. 

‘You will, I hope, forgive the inquiry,’ said he, ‘but the kerchief at your neck: surely the silk is Parisian, and new this spring.’

‘Yes,’ Molly answered, a trifle flustered. ‘I thank you. A gift from my uncle, who lives abroad. He maintains it is the latest fashion, and I confess myself delighted to take him at his word.’

‘I dare say it is incumbent upon accomplished young women to keep themselves informed of such things,’ said Mr. Holmes. ‘I myself remain some degree familiar with the houses of fashion, both here and in Paris, though my motives spring from a more professional, than a personal interest. Yet I admit, at times I find in the study a certain satisfaction. Whereas certain other gentlemen – Detective Inspector Lestrade, for example – but no doubt you find this topic insupportably dull.’

‘Oh no,’ said Molly. ‘Pray continue. I am all attention.’

‘I am sure I ought not,’ said Holmes. ‘Lestrade will be here momentarily; and by that time it will be too late; his unorthodox tastes will be of little consequence.’

At these words Molly’s complaisance, already over-burdened, threatened to give way. She was not the better pleased with Mr. Holmes’s dubious gallantry, for she was under no illusion as to the direction in which it must tend. But the opportunity of improving her acquaintance with Mr. Lestrade was not so easily come by, that she could regard its loss with equanimity. She turned, therefore, to unlock the mortuary door.

‘There is, I believe, a looking-glass behind this casement,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it might assist in your intelligence.’

Holmes smiled and entered the room, removing Molly’s kerchief from her neck as he passed, and contriving, with hardly a downward glance, to fashion it into a neat band. Much to her astonishment, he then fastened this band about her wrist; and swept past her in the direction of the storage cabinets.

‘The Detective Inspector is susceptible of the most startling attachments, to ladies who display some degree of the – bohemian,’ Holmes remarked, casting an eye over the numbered shelves. ‘Twenty-three, if I am not very much mistaken?’ Molly replied in the affirmative. 

The two gentlemen hastened to examine the contents of the twenty-third drawer; and Mr. Holmes, having posed a number of questions to Molly as to the time of the lady’s arrival, her personal effects, and the treatment she had thus far received, was able in his turn to declare her a person of good family whose circumstances, her fortune being largely consumed by a profligate sibling, had of late been greatly reduced. 

Molly could not see Mr. Holmes working, without recollecting their exchange of minutes before; and her mind was thus much occupied with considering his remarks on the subject of Mr. Lestrade. She had always supposed, that her warm affection for the gentleman had gone unnoticed in any quarter save her own; and furthermore, had she set herself to increase his regard, the very last person she might have consulted on the matter, would be Mr. Holmes.  She was so preoccupied in thus puzzling to herself, that she was quite startled when the Detective Inspector himself appeared at her elbow; and even more so when he drew to her attention the retreating forms of Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson.

‘Oh ! Mr. Lestrade,’ she said, severely out of countenance, ‘I am sorry; I did not see you there; my head is so bewildered. And now I see that Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson have already taken their leave.’

‘You must not be too severe upon yourself,’ said Lestrade, smilingly, extending her his arm. ‘They offered no greeting or farewell to either of us. We shall just have to bear up as well as we can, Miss Hooper. I dare say the indignity of the thing shall pass soon enough.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Roane for the prompt of Austen at Bart's!


	2. 10:00 - After Thompson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t slept in three days. What was worse, neither had my physician. It was ten in the goddamn morning by the time I washed up on the steps of St. Bart’s, and I knew the clock was ticking.

I hadn’t slept in three days. What was worse, neither had my physician. It was ten in the goddamn morning by the time I washed up on the steps of St. Bart’s, and I knew the clock was ticking. 

So there I was, vibrating out of my skin. Stuffed to the gills with cowboy coffee, my arms covered in industrial-grade nicotine patches, I was still haunted by depraved visions of the night before: the haggard face of my physician; the crazed weasel burrowing into my chest. 

The weasel was still there. I could feel him, squirming and squeaking under my skin like some grotesque parody of a family pet. Trying to make a run for it. I clapped a casual hand to my shoulder, keeping my expression neutral. We were, after all, here on _business_.

Privately, I thought the weasel was better off where he was. The sunlight was goddamn awful out here; he wouldn’t like it. 

I think I could’ve _maintained_ , just bullied my way through the whole treacherous circus. But I had my physician to consider. He’d reached a critical stage: leaning, staggering, muttering mad secrets to the walls. From here it was a lightning-fast descent into the loss of all dignity: a debauched string of days and nights spent wallowing in gutter-water, dead to the world in the glare of a red neon light. I couldn’t abandon the poor bastard. I was bound to him by honor and duty. 

I also felt a scientific obligation to observe his progress. 

I cast a critical eye over him, where he sagged bravely against the doorbell. The noise echoed in the empty hall. A claxon call of darkness and monstrosity. 

Things looked bleak, all right. But we had one advantage: my last sleepless night had pulled the shutters from my eyes. I was almost painfully sharp in my mind. I understood our situation with _crystal_ clarity. 

We had been asked to view a body - but that was a red herring, designed to confuse and savage us. The dead understoodus, I knew. _Our_ problem was the living. In our current condition, to remain too long in the company of respectable humans would result in consequences the brutality of which I could scarcely imagine. 

My physician slid another inch down the wall. He seemed impervious to my encouraging glower.

We needed a sharp shot of coke and a case full of amyls, but more than that we needed _focus_. We were the cream of the national consulting detective scene; we couldn’t afford to let our vibes get nasty. We would have to ride this thing out to its catastrophic conclusion.

My physician was still leaning on the bell. Even in his distress, he managed to give the thing an air of command. I admired that. Despite his Scottish handicap, the bastard was a patriot, a model of bedrock grit. Passed out cold with his shoulder against the bell, he was a reminder of everything upright and true in the national character. 

I looked away. It would spell disaster to get maudlin at a time like this.

The door was opening now. With lightning-quick reflexes I assumed an innocent expression, as the face of Molly Hooper peered out. The goddamn awful sunlight wasn’t doing her any favors. She looked wrong: pinched; grotesquely distorted. Her hair was coiled to one side like a malignant reptile.

‘Sherlock!’ she said. ‘Nobody told me you’d be dropping—’ She broke off suddenly, looking closer: right into the depths of my eyes. 

I reeled back in horror, jabbering some nonsense about surprises. 

Oh Christ, I thought, clutching my chest in a frantic attempt to conceal the weasel’s squirming. What fresh hell was this? Gorgon crones with x-ray vision? White witches in the sanctified heart of medical London? 

‘Well, come in then,’ she said, lips stretched wide in a painful grimace. ‘But I can’t let you in the morgue; they’re breathing down my neck lately.’

And what the fuck did she _mean_ by that? The woman was supposed to be a medical professional, and here she was, in league with some kind of heinous neck-breathers. I looked into her face and shuddered.

She was beckoning to us. I shrank back against the doorway, but my physician, the fool, followed her inside. He was in the grips of it now: clutching and sliding against the walls like some kind of demented lizard. Could I _leave_ him here? Did he even _understand_ , in his current state, the lunacy unfolding?

I thought about cutting my losses. Abandoning the poor geek to his fate. He’d no doubt be pressed into service as the mindless sex slave of this Gorgon monster, perpetual prey to neck-breathing zombie madmen. But I could still get out: steal a stealth-black convertible and drive north, keeping to the back roads, foot to the floor until I ran out of road. Then dive underground and ford the channel. Keep moving, always moving.

In the end, I knew I couldn’t do it. My commitment to _science_ was too strong. I followed them in, keeping close to the walls and marking the exits. 

The Gorgon was hissing something about a Board of Directors. It sounded ominous; ugly. I tried to form words, but her eyes were devoid of even the most basic humanity. 

We were on the wrong foot here, that much was obvious. The Gorgon was intractable; all my attempts at communication were getting nowhere. The morgue door was in sight, with its own set of nasty complications, and I knew it was time to exert some goddamn _authority_. But my tongue in my mouth felt like granite.

Luckily, my physician chose that moment to come out of his stupor and _act_.

‘Listen,’ he said, paternal hand on her shoulder, ‘I don’t know what you’re capable of, but I need you to understand the _truth_. We were sent here, do you comprehend me? We have connections! Wheels within wheels at the highest national levels, right? Right? Connections with a _very important Detective Inspector_ at the Met, by the name of Lestrade. You see what I’m getting at? You see the incalculable benefits to you _personally_ if you cooperate with our investigation?’

'Well then,’ said the Gorgon, implacable behind her snakes. ‘Maybe we should wait for Mr. Lestrade’s arrival.’ 

‘This man is a doctor of _medicine_!’ I bawled. ‘Does his word count for nothing?’  

But my physician was drawing me away, shaking his head a little sadly.

‘Best not to push it,’ he said. ‘There’s no _reasoning_ with these people.’

‘Not to mention,’ I said, gesturing around at the walls, ‘eyes and ears, John. Snake eyes everywhere. You never _know_ who might be watching.’ 

My physician nodded, sagely. 

We stood, clinging to each other, bathed in fluorescent lighting reflected off chartreuse industrial paint. The floor undulated horribly whenever I closed my eyes, so I was careful to keep them wide and staring. 

The Gorgon was looking at me sideways. My nicotine patches crinkled when I moved my arms; the noise was hideously loud in the silent hallway.  

And it wasn’t just the Gorgon: the crinkling had awoken the weasel in my chest. I worked to remain calm. I would take care of him, I thought, but this was _not_ the time. Except for the abject horror of my situation, and the gross insult to my bodily integrity, the little guy wasn’t hurting anyone. In the meantime I kept my arms as straight as possible, down at my sides.  

The Gorgon was still staring. Her snakes snapped at each other, and at the green cloth around her neck. _Play it cool_ , I thought. _Create a distraction._

‘What are you doing with that?’ I barked at her. 

She didn’t answer. 

‘That thing around your neck!’ I yelled. ‘Where the fuck did you get that thing, France?’ 

She looked nervous. Good. My physician was making warning noises, but I ignored him. This was the right track. I could feel it.

‘Um, yes, actually, my, um, uncle gave it—’ said the Gorgon. That was enough of that. I flung up my hands. 

‘You think I don’t know your _uncle_?’ I shouted, with a desperate laugh. ‘Good god, the man’s a menace. Wanted for felonies in sixteen regions and fifty-two départments.’

“I don’t - he’s not, um,’ said the Gorgon, obviously unsettled. 

‘Plus Martinique,’ I went on, ‘and the País Vasco. What the hell are you doing accepting _gifts_ from that lunatic? If I didn’t know Lestrade and his weird goddamn aesthetic preferences were about to get here, I’d confiscate the thing.’

‘I, um,’ said the Gorgon. I could see a glint of weakness in her eyes. ‘What was that about the Detective Inspector?’ 

Aha, I thought wildly, you’ve got your hooks in her. Now it’s just a matter of reeling her in. Bullshit artistry. Staring death in the face; the usual gibberish. 

‘This man,’ I said, pointing at my physician, ‘this man and I could _tell_ you about the Detective Inspector. More than you could ever want to know.” She looked expectant. I turned around suddenly, my finger in her face. ‘But how do we know we can _trust_ you?’

She pursed her lips. I knew I had her. The kid Molly had always had a soft spot for the DI. Whatever beast was currently making use of her body would undoubtedly want to add him to its collection. 

‘I — you’re not fooling anyone, you know,’ she said. ‘But I suppose I could let you in a few minutes early.’

She turned to unlock the door. I lunged forward, stifling the urge to start declaiming goddamned oratory. The last time I’d allowed myself _that_ luxury I’d ended up naked on a Hammersmith poker table, covered in blood and waving a harpoon. My physician often claimed to have extracted me ‘just in time’ and ‘at great personal cost.’ Whatever the hell _that_ meant. I had never had the balls to ask him.

The door swung open. I could see into the morgue. Beyond the doorway, beyond the bank of cold storage vaults, the cold heart of a corpse was calling. _Something off about it_ , Lestrade had said, and I’d started salivating like a wild dog. I knew it was ready to be read, to be _seen_ , if I could just get in the goddamned door. 

But the Gorgon was blocking my path, looking hopeful. She would have to be dealt with. I narrowed my eyes against the power of her gaze, then reached out and plucked the scarf from her neck, twisting it into a band and knotting it around her wrist. 

‘He’s a goddamn kinky bastard, Lestrade,’ I grunted, trying to swallow my hysterical laughter. ‘Goes mad at the slightest sign of restraints. _Keep that in mind_.’ 

I glared at her, making sure she was still off-balance, then darted forward, reaching out already for the cold storage vault, my physician close on my heels. Keep moving, I thought. Keep dodging, weaving. Shake the bastards off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Eldritch-horrors](http://eldritch-horrors.tumblr.com) for the Hunter S. Thompson prompt. This chapter was really excellent fun.


End file.
